Authors: Doug Vossen
Skyfire (24 page)
“Fine, but you do the same for me.”
“Deal,” said Trent.
“Ya’ll okay?” asked Harrison, who was bringing up the rear.
“Fine, man,” replied Callie.
The tunnels were silent. The group proceeded through each train carefully and quietly. Ronak signaled to Karl, who halted the movement. “Major McMullin,” said Ronak, “we seem to be in a position where the unknown lies before us.” He stopped for a moment and held up his finger, indicating he wanted everyone to wait before exiting the train through the opening connecting the final two cars. He looked ahead with a blank expression. The bright orb illuminating their path darkened and shot north through the tunnel, fast as a bullet. It returned thirty seconds later.
What is he doing?
Ronak lowered his finger and motioned for Karl to come over. “Major, we have four individuals touched by the phenomenon in the immediate vicinity of the subway station, with a crowd of undetermined size approximately 300 meters further down the tunnel. We need to make it through these obstacles and into the facility before the crowd overwhelms us. I strongly suggest we attempt to do this as quietly as possible.”
“Shit, Ron. I’ve got to get me one of those things.” Karl’s face lit up with child-like enthusiasm. He pulled everyone in and explained the situation.
God, let’s do some dumb half-assed shit. We’re soldiers, not ninjas. Ah well, I guess we’ll do the old “stay quiet as long as we can and then it’s a shit-show” method.
“We’ll keep the same order of movement exiting the train and take a knee quietly, just shy of the platform,” Karl continued. “I’ll take a quick peek to see what’s what and come back to figure out who’s taking out who.” With that, Karl slithered out of the small space between the second to last car and the lead car. His path was restricted by the old, rusted springs stretched far beyond their capacity due to one train having rolled halfway on its side. Karl’s jungle boots hit the dirt and gravel of the subway tunnel. The smell of stagnant puddle water and steam filled his nostrils. It was a lot warmer than one would expect for an autumn night.
Down we go.
Everyone switched off their rifle-mounted flashlights prior to exiting the derailed train. Trent followed Karl, followed by Jack, Callie and Harrison.
They each took a knee on alternate sides of the tunnel, focusing their attention on any gaps in the trains and any position that offered advantageous fields of fire in both directions. Harrison was on his belly under the lead train, facing toward the crowd Ronak had mentioned. Karl peeked around the corner and turned back to his cover spot, behind the wall adjacent to the platform. He seemed to be calculating something in his head. He peeked around the corner once more and made his way back to the group. He went around to each person, informing them what lay ahead. “Trent, there’s two dudes to the right. You take the one on the left, I’ll get the one on the right. You know the deal, no shooting until the last possible second.”
Fair enough.
Trent began thinking about how he was going to kill his victim, as if he were some sort of artist.
“Jack, there’s one really fat dude just inside the entry foyer beyond the turnstiles,” Karl continued. “He’s going nuts, banging his head against the wall over and over. He’s not moving like I would expect a fat person to move. He’s yours.”
“You got it, man,” Jack replied.
Karl then turned to Callie. “OK, little girl. When you get around the corner, you’ll see two guys on the right - a fat dude in the middle, just inside the museum, and another dude to his back left, behind the security checkpoint. He’s yours. Don’t shoot unless I shoot first or you absolutely need to for self-defense.” Callie nodded in response.
“Ron, help Harrison pull security. If that mob of people comes down the tunnel I need some of that baddasstitude you busted out when we got into the tunnel.”
“I do not comprehend all of your language, but through context I can infer your meaning,” said Ronak.
With everyone assigned a task, Karl and Trent crept to the right. Jack pulled himself up onto the platform and crept into the large shadow cast by the 24-hour MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority) booth. Karl glanced at Trent, as if to say ‘now.’
Here we go again.
Trent grasped the pistol grip of his M4 with his left hand and the gangsta grip with his right. His hands weren’t shaking; he was in a completely calm, trance-like state. Although he was surrounded by other people during combat, both friend and foe, Trent saw fighting as a personal endeavor. It was as if the enemy didn’t even exist. It was overcoming an individual challenge on the personal journey of life.
I’ve been here before. This is going to be just fine.
Trent nodded back at Karl. It was time.
Like a pendulum.
Trent dipped his arms at a downward forty-five degree angle and thrust his bayonet upward, into the chest of a touched man who was staring off at nothing. As soon as the blade pierced the man’s skin, he began shrieking and flailing his limbs. This set off a chain reaction of screaming and erratic behavior in the other three touched people. Worse, it awakened the large crowd a little less than a quarter mile down the tunnel.
Crap. Here we go again.
Trent controlled the man’s movement with the bayonet lodged in his ribcage, then slammed the man front-side first into the exterior of the lead car of the derailed subway. With the heel of his right foot, Trent swept the man’s feet out from under him. The man fell face-down to the ground, writhing and shrieking, a bayonet in his back. Trent withdrew the blade and stabbed three times into the back of the man’s neck, until it hung by a fleshy thread. The man’s limbs weakened to a slight twitch.
Karl was face-to-face with the second target, who was now very much awake. He delivered a butt stroke to the man’s face, stunning him. Then the
pop-pop
of a controlled pair rang out through the tunnel. Karl’s target dropped to the floor.
I guess we’re shooting now.
JACK
They were in the museum’s underground entry foyer, no more than fifty feet from the edge of the train platform. The obese man presented the same symptoms Callie had encountered in the aid station. The man bum-rushed Jack, snorting and screaming. Jack was crushed under the weight of his attacker, who was unnaturally strong, fast, and agile. If not for his bulletproof-plated vest, Jack would have had nothing to absorb the impact of the man’s take-down. He likely would have been suffocated.
“Jack!” Callie tried to push the man off Jack, to no avail. She then pointed her handgun at the man and pumped three rounds into his side. She aimed carefully so as not to hit Jack.
“Stop!” yelled Jack. “Take care of your target and come back!”
What the hell do I do now? Calm down! Think for a second!
The obese man writhed his disgusting mass all over Jack’s torso, enveloping Jack. Flecks of gore from the man’s facial orifices hit Jack in the face.
Callie pivoted in a semi-circle, her back now facing Jack and the fat man.
BANG-BANG!
Two to the target’s chest. The average-sized man faltered and hit the ground.
BANG-BANG!
Two more to the target’s head. She rotated back to Jack and tried to fire again at the obese man, who was now softening Jack up with increasingly hard punches.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
“Fuck, I’m out!”
These punches are fucking hard. It’s lights out if I don’t get him first.
Jack created space between himself and the fat man by pushing forward with his palms and sliding out to his left, his right hip dragging across the floor.
Fuck! Just a few more inches!
“Callie, help me! Catch his left arm! These punches are going to cave my fucking face in!”
Callie threw herself on the man’s enormous arm. The man’s absurd strength and speed made it very difficult for her to maintain her hold.
I hipped left; he’s in my open guard now.
The next time he comes at me with that right hand, he’s mine.
Sure enough, another uncoordinated, strong-as-fuck right came crashing down; Jack used both his hands to gain wrist control. He shot up his left leg to the outside of the man’s right shoulder, working to position his right leg to close the deal. “Callie! Keep holding that arm! Pull it back as far from me as you can! This fuckin’ guy’s a monster!”
“I’m fucking trying!” Callie yelled through clenched teeth. She quickly decided Jack rubbed her the wrong way.
Almost there. Fuck!
Jack’s rifle was still slung on his shoulder, but it was banging around wildly. He finally swung the rifle behind him. It was incredibly hard to grapple while wearing body armor and a weapon. Every time the fat man writhed, the rifle jammed into a different exposed part of Jack’s body.
Almost there!
Jack shot his right leg up between the man’s left shoulder and head. He methodically placed the crook of his right knee on his attacker’s neck. He moved slowly and deliberately, like a snake.
“Jack, what now?”
“Climb on his back and push his head down! I can’t pull it down myself!”
Jack did a half sit-up, locking the crook of his left knee over the top of his right ankle. He found a better position to grab the back of the man’s neck and pull it toward him. The man’s right arm and head were now in a triangle choke; he was gasping and panicking. The friction of Jack’s ACU pants and boots ensured the choke was locked in tightly.
How long can someone last in one of my triangles? Ten seconds?
Jack arched his hips, tightening the noose even more. The fat man then rose to his knees and hopped to his feet, quickly and effortlessly, with Jack still hanging from him in the triangle choke hold.
Shit, now I’m hanging in the air and this guy doesn’t seem to give a shit.
Jack reached to the outside of his right leg, where his M9 sidearm was holstered. He drew it and flicked the lever on the back of the slide assembly, exposing the red dot. Jack’s legs were on fire from the strain of the hold.
I have to finish this NOW!
It was hard to aim with the fat man flailing wildly.
Fuck! I can’t get the shot! I don’t want to blow off my own fucking leg off!
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
Callie had reloaded her handgun and unloaded two-thirds of a magazine into the back of the obese predator.
The fat man dropped to his knees, slamming Jack to the ground forcefully enough to knock the wind out of him.
I can’t breathe!
If not for the insanity unfolding at the north end of the tunnel, Jack would have had a major introspective life moment.
Trent, Ronak, Karl, and Harrison hurried to the entry foyer. “Jackie, stop fucking lying on your back, you pussy!” yelled Karl. “We need to MOVE!”
“Um, sirs - there’s like fifty people running right at us!” said Harrison. “What do we do now!?”
“Major Rugerman,” said Ronak, “I can-”
“Ron, if you got some shit, now’s the time!” yelled Karl.
“Everyone, please move into the facility. I will address this issue.” Ronak’s reflective sphere shot down the subway tunnel. Then came an explosion so forceful that it knocked everyone to the ground.
“Dude, you just fucked up the 81st Street subway!” Callie yelled in disbelief.
“Please move into the facility. Now.”
Everyone complied with these instructions. Ronak positioned himself in a wide, low stance, his right leg forward with his toes pointed straight ahead. His rear leg was a little wider than shoulder-width from his front; his rear foot pointed outward at a forty-five degree angle. He moved his left arm so that the forearm was pressed against the small of his back. At the first sounds of hissing and screeching moving toward the train platform, a brilliant flash, similar to the orb’s, sparked near Ronak’s left arm. Ronak was now holding what looked to be an edged weapon with the same impressive luster as the orb. He did not hold it like a sword, knife, or bayonet. Part of this weapon seemed to be attached to Ronak’s left elbow and wrist, with an interface that he held in palm of his left hand. The interface seemed intended for a higher function than that of a handle. Ronak ran his thumb over the handle-like interface, which pulsated with different colors of the light spectrum. When he positioned his thumb on the interface, its color changed slightly, along with the color of the weapon’s outer edge. Different low-level tones corresponded with each thumb position. Ronak chose a setting that turned the edge of the two-foot weapon a light red hue, bordering on pink.
Jack peered through the glass doors from a safe distance.
What is that thing? Did it shoot out of his wrist like some Goonies shit, or did it just appear out of thin air?
“Guys, are you seeing what I’m seeing? Can we take a moment to acknowledge how incredible this is?”
“I don’t give a shit about any of this right now, man,” said Karl. “I just want to find this Indian asshole and get the fuck out of here!”
Trent, however, did give a shit. He was intent on seeing what was about to unfold. The shrieks from the tunnel’s north side grew louder and louder. “Harrison, pull security past the metal detectors facing the signs for the food court, please.”
The shrieks got louder and louder.
All our eggs are in one basket - one big, pale, seven-and-a-half-foot tall basket.
The first group of touched people made their way up from the platform tracks. Three bolted toward Ronak, who whipped his left arm around his side and down, in a diagonal cutting motion. He performed this maneuver six more times at different angles, sidestepping the threats. The attackers continued running at him, but simply fell forward in small pieces, cut cleanly by Ronak’s weapon. The perfectly cut chunks of flesh hit the ground and slid toward the wall at the same speed the people were running. Mists of blood sprayed each time an artery was severed.
“Sirs, ya’ll seeing this shit?” said Harrison, beside himself with excitement.
I get it. I haven’t been this enthralled by violence since I saw a 500 pound bomb blow up an IED emplacer.
“Pay attention!” said Jack.
“Pull security toward the inside of the museum.”
“Harrison, I thought I’d seen everything the buffet of global violence has to offer,” said Trent. “These last three days have made me rethink that notion. This is fucking crazy.”
Another horde of touched people clamored up to the train platform. The group was getting larger. The touched were now using each other’s bodies as climbing supports, presenting Ronak with a continuous stream of meat to slice. Ronak moved with surprising grace, dancing around the onslaught. The brief, fading trails of light whipping around, followed by the red mist and chunks of meat hitting the ground, had almost an artistic beauty.
Dynamic brutality in motion. I guess this is the “art” part of “martial arts.”
Ronak returned to his resting stance, his left hand in the small of his back. Every inch of his form-fitting suit was speckled with blood. Even after killing close to thirty people in two minutes, Ronak stared placidly ahead, his eyes dull.
Karl peeked his head out the door. “OK Ron, we get the fucking point! You’re a badass! Now get the hell in here! We need to move!”
Ronak’s weapon vanished as fast as it had materialized. He returned to the group.
Better lock these doors.
Jack put his shoulder into the heavy door and positioned the flush-bolt floor lock over its slot. “Hey Harrison, you mind?”
Harrison twisted the thumb turn on the floor, causing the metal rod to slip into the three-inch hole.
“Good,” said Jack. “Let’s hit those other two pairs of doors. That should buy us a little time.”
“Everyone, consolidate and reorganize,” said Trent. “How are we looking on ammo? I only got one mag remaining after this one.”
“I’m down to my last one too,” said Callie.
Trent patted everyone down to see how many mags they had. The group then passed mags and rounds between each another until everyone had roughly the same amount of bullets.
“Ready to get this show on the road?” Jack asked.
Everyone nodded.